


The Book Seeker

by littledust



Category: Markus Zusak - The Book Thief
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-21
Updated: 2009-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-04 20:56:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/34050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littledust/pseuds/littledust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Featuring: one death--a letter from overseas--the sound of Sydney--books--a librarian--the sandwich king--learning to read in British and Australian--the book seeker--a word witch--and a new life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Book Seeker

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lyras](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyras/gifts).



> The author is eternally grateful to her beta, who provided editorial suggestions and interesting tidbits about Sydney and its libraries.

Like many other stories, this one begins with a death.

Like many other stories, this one begins with a girl.

Like all stories, this one begins with words.

The death in question belonged to a tailor named Alex Steiner, who let it carry him away one soft spring night. His soul slipped out on his final breath and wafted into the sky. A hollow man, this tailor: you could fit him through the eye of a needle, yet he put nothing of himself into his work. There was nothing left to give.

Though the death in question belonged to Alex Steiner, the girl in question owned a small part of it. Liesel Meminger worked alongside him in his shop, although she was not a very good tailor. Her great talents included reading, writing, and thievery, but not sewing. The mourning garments she altered for herself fell in odd lines on her frame, still girl-skinny in postwar Germany. The clothes gave her a part of Alex Steiner's death; the clothes and the funeral. She wore black to the event and made use of her other, unacknowledged great talent.

Liesel Meminger could carry deaths.

Humans are too frail to carry many deaths. Those forced to carry excess amounts often become like Alex Steiner: little ghosts drifting through the world, unable to bear the burden of remembering. Liesel Meminger had strength in her narrow shoulders, however. She was not one to fade away. The deaths she carried anchored her in this world, for it was only by living in it that she could honor her burdens.

Mother. Brother. Mama. Papa. Rudy.

The list went on. Liesel endured.

Still, it was fortunate for the girl that a letter arrived six weeks after the funeral. The letter smelled of salt and friendship, and the words of this letter spelled out a clear invitation. _Sydney is a beautiful city,_ Max Vandenburg wrote to Liesel, _but it is very lonely. It is lonely like a word shaker with no one to hear her stories. _

Come.

Stay.

*

In this case, the story is not in Liesel Meminger's journey from Germany to Australia. The preparations, the physical distance traveled, even the mingled excitement and apprehension Liesel felt--these things are not the story. Only the facts, then: securing passage took months. Max worried about sharing an apartment with a young woman, until she pointed out that she had nowhere else to go and he had no one else, either. It rained on the day Liesel left. The sun beamed down the day Liesel arrived. Her suitcase made a gentle thump against the ground as she ran to Max, both of them laughing and crying like always.

The story is in this moment: when Liesel looked around at the city sprawling before her and saw words splashed through the air like stars. Like great art, most of the words did not resolve themselves into a clear picture. Meaning required careful thought.

"What will I read?" Liesel wondered, listening to the babel of the city.

"We will read English books together," promised Max, who had learned a new smile from the sea breeze. His hair was still like feathers and his eyes were swampy as always, but he had been eating for a few years now. The numbers on his arm had not faded. Neither had the words from his mind.

"We will write English books together, too," he added, because a good friend knows when a map is needed.

"We will need a dictionary," observed Liesel, who knew the value of a compass.

*

In Australia, it is important to be careful while swimming. There are riptides and sharks and jellyfish. Never swim alone. Though Liesel was not an experienced swimmer, she plunged into the words like one, immersing herself with respect for their immense power. You never know when you will be swept away. Max was her partner through thick and thin, through time and tide.

Liesel complained one afternoon, "It was easier to learn to read in German."

Max made no reply, because he had drifted off to sleep in the October sunshine. He washed dishes in a restaurant to make a living, while Liesel continued in the business of mediocre tailoring. Work left both weary, so weary, and their hobby was often wearisome, for it usually did not progress at the pace they desired. They craved words, Liesel and Max. They needed them.

Perhaps she had chosen the wrong book to start her English education. But for the girl, there was no wrong book. Liesel had not stolen the book called _The Midway Moon_, but she had spotted it mis-shelved in a dusty corner of the library. Some careless browser had undoubtedly put it back at random, for the library was generally a tidy place. The library was a wonder in itself, and Liesel quelled her linguistic frustrations by picturing the building in her mind, rooms and rooms of books on shelves. The words waited for her. She didn't have to snatch them from fire.

Liesel was unfamiliar with the concept of words that just waited around for you, so she went back to the library long before she and Max had worked their way through _The Midway Moon_, just to see that the books were still safe. Even when she had stolen books from Ilsa Hermann, the words had been in danger every moment, their beauty in the iron chains of the Nazi Party. The beauty of Fisher Library was unbound, sandstone warm and pressed against limitless sky.

The librarian at the desk was the same as yesterday, a round old woman with a face like a boot. Strands of hair fell around her face like laces. She creased her brown leather into a smile when Liesel came in for the second time. "Finished already?"

Liesel shook her head, recognizing the tone of the question, if not the words. "English," she began, then felt the new words slip away from her. How unfair, that there were so many words here for free, and she could keep none of them.

"Give it time. They'll still be here," the librarian said, for the best librarians are fluent in book lovers, whatever other languages they speak. "My name is Ellen Morris."

Liesel said, "Liesel Meminger. _Guten tag_, Frau Morris."

"_Guten tag_," Ellen Morris replied agreeably, and her accent made Liesel laugh.

*

Liesel and Max were in the library when they met the sandwich king.

They had not been expecting to meet royalty in such an out-of-the-way place, so they were not properly attired. Liesel wore dark green and had her hair pinned up; Max's trousers were patched in brown and his hair was not any different. "I'm not certain that this is the right one," Max was saying as Liesel pointed to the book in her hand. (After they looked up "sequel" in the dictionary, they discovered that the story of _The Midway Moon_ continued.)

The sandwich king ran headlong into Liesel's knees, whereupon he let out a cry. Liesel looked down at the king, who wore a crown cut out of cardboard atop his fair head. He held a jam sandwich in each of his hands, and there was jam all over his mouth. He could only be the sandwich king, though at the moment he did not look very regal. In fact, he looked in need of a good bath.

"Hello," Liesel greeted the king, who seemed stunned by the impact of his small body against her legs.

"Hello," he mumbled around the bite of sandwich in his mouth. Chewed. Swallowed. Scowled.

"Are you lost?" Max asked, who had learned the English for this question after several occasions of being lost himself. He knelt down to see eye-to-eye with the sandwich king.

Though the sandwich king was not easy to charm, there was something about the grown man crouching down in front of him that made a trace of a smile creep out. "I'm not lost, I live here." His English sounded different than the English Liesel and Max knew.

"In the library? You must be very lucky."

The trace vanished. "I hate it here."

The sandwich king's words moved Liesel Meminger, who up until this point had remained a silent observer of the conversation. Now she was a part of it, for she could not stop the question that burst from her: "Why?"

The king's look of surprise was almost comical. No one had ever asked him why, only protested his declaration. Here was a strange lady whose clothes didn't fit her, who pronounced her words strangely, who looked at him with such a calm expression, asking him the essential question. "I used to live in London, but the Germans bombed it. It was lovely until they ruined it. The bombs killed my parents," he explained in a rush. The only way he could get through this story without unkingly sniffling was to tell it as fast as possible.

"The bombs killed my parents, too," Liesel said, but more slowly. She did not have the royal grandeur to preserve.

"The Germans killed my family," Max said, and his face was very still.

The three fell silent, then, though their conversation continued. The sandwich king held out a sandwich to each of them, the generosity of his offer not diminished by the small bites taken out. Liesel and Max accepted the sandwiches with respect, and chewed with solemnity. The jam was strawberry.

"Would you like me... to read to you?" Liesel asked, after a pause to fish out the right words.

The sandwich king had just nodded when Mrs. Morris arrived, in search of her wayward grandson, Stephen.

*

The reading situation proved a beneficial arrangement for everyone. Liesel practiced her English by reading aloud to Max, who learned better from the sound of her voice, and Stephen, who liked to help her with the words she stumbled over. Liesel's English accent now contained an interesting mix of British and Australian while still heavily flavored with German, but she could make herself understood, which was the main thing. Mrs. Morris, the boot-faced librarian grandmother, confided in Max that she had never seen Stephen so happy since his parents had died.

"Words are a gift," Max agreed, with a fond look at Liesel reading in a corner, Stephen curled at her side. He no longer wore the cardboard crown except on special occasions (mostly lunch). "I think Liesel is much happier now, too."

Mrs. Morris looked from the reading pair back to Max again. Smiled wider. "You should go and join them. I think you're missed."

Max did join them, though his working hours were less flexible than Liesel's, much to his disappointment. Still, there was a quiet magic that bound the three together, these war-torn children from Europe. Liesel's English grew better by leaps and bounds, though much of the vocabulary in _The Midway Moon_ and its sequel, _The Halfway Dawn_, was not useful for the life of a poor tailor. She had a feeling the owner of the shop only kept her on because Max asked his fellow refugees to patronize the store.

Stephen was of the opinion that Liesel should work at the library along with his grandmother, but Liesel protested. "My English is still not good." Still, now that Stephen had made the suggestion, she wanted it so badly that her heart ached.

"I could help you. I help you read all the time!"

"_You_ will have to go to school when summer is over." Liesel grinned sympathetically at the expression on his face. She knew Stephen had a spotty record with school attendance, and had not yet been to school in Australia at all. "School wasn't fun for me, either, but Frau Morris wants you there."

"I hate school here," Stephen declared, and he looked like he had the day their friendship started.

The sight of his small face screwed up in anger and sorrow gave Liesel a pang below her breastbone. She did her best to be encouraging, but the only lessons she had ever loved were conducted in a basement, far outside the approved curriculum. Though the sunshine was a December blaze in an electric blue sky, she felt snow falling around her. Snow was falling back home, where it was dark. She knew this in her bones.

Something had to be done.

Was this how Hans Hubermann felt years ago?

Something would be done, but not at the moment, as Stephen had just become the sandwich king, which meant it was time for her lunch as well.

*

"I want to do something for Stephen," she announced over a late dinner. By silent agreement, Max did all the cooking, for Liesel did not know how to cook in Hebrew. Some would say that she did not know how to cook, period, because she had learned by observing Rosa Hubermann.

Max wiped his hands on a napkin. "What sort of book should we make?"

Liesel sat transfixed for a moment in her chair. When someone knows you well enough to read your thoughts, it is always a beautiful surprise. "It should say good things about school," she said, "though I don't think I ever learned much there. Maybe Australian teachers love to read."

"I think he has one teacher who loves to read," Max said, and Liesel glowed.

*

Question: How long does it take two Germans to write a children's book in English?

Answer: The rest of the summer.

Max and Liesel bought real paper for this book, without having to tear apart another. They bought colored inks to work with, and Liesel wrote far into the night while Max sketched and practiced blending colors. Joy filled up the apartment as the story took shape, a story of book seekers and word witches. Max asked if they should tell Stephen that Liesel was a word shaker, but Liesel said he would not understand until he was older. Max agreed.

Sometimes Liesel would put her pen down to remember the last time that she wrote a book. She remembered the last book Max made. Liesel longed for some tiny bit of Himmel Street then, with a sadness too painful for crying, but perhaps there was no better way to honor her past than to do this small thing for a boy who had also lost his world.

After this book was done, she would write another.

Christmas had long since passed by the time Max and Liesel were ready to give Stephen his book, but he did not seem surprised by the present. Perhaps a king may accept such things as his due.

"Will you read it to us?" Liesel asked, and Stephen trembled a little under this new responsibility. To his credit, he rose to the occasion.

The three took their usual spot on a long, cushioned bench near one of the windows. Mrs. Morris, who had been informed of the nature of the present, asked another librarian to cover the front desk so that she could listen in. Stephen held the book up to the light and read the title page: _The Book Seeker_. Liesel and Max drew in their breaths as one. The whole library seemed to fall still in the moment before the story unfolded, told in the voice of a little orphan boy who had found a family here.

_This is the story of the book seeker. Before he was a book seeker, he was a boy who lived in the sea. He grew up braiding the seaweed and fearing the gulls that swept from the sky, the same gulls that stole his parents away. He came ashore because he was lonely, and a word witch welcomed him with open arms. She lived in a palace of books, and it was her job to guide all book seekers on their proper paths._

"That seems easy," the book seeker scoffed. The word witch only smiled.

The book seeker began to search for a book to read. This one was too long. This one had too many large words. This one did not have an interesting story. He searched and searched, but he could not find the book he sought. The book seeker sat down and would have cried, except he was braver than that. He still cried a little, because even brave people cry at times.

There were two other book seekers in the palace, and they decided to help the book seeker. They read to him from books they had found. They shared their lunch with him. They looked up words in the dictionary together. They even led him back to the word witch, so that she could set the book seeker on his proper path again.

The book seeker felt very bad for jeering at the word witch's guidance. "I'm sorry. I need your help," he confessed.

The word witch said, "There are many places to seek a book. You might have to travel far and wide to find the right book, even if it has been waiting here all along."

The man who was a book seeker said, "The journey might be hundreds of miles, or just a few streets over."

The woman who was a book seeker said, "Sometimes it takes time before you are ready to seek your book."

The book seeker heard the wisdom in these words. He was a little frightened of the journey, but as we have already mentioned, the book seeker was brave. The word witch washed his face and he tied his shoelaces. He packed many sandwiches for the journey, and the word witch gave him some pencils and some paper.

"Write down all your new ideas. They will help you seek your book," the man who was a book seeker advised.

"We will wait for you!" the woman who was a book seeker said. Man, woman, and word witch embraced the book seeker.

The book seeker stepped onto the path.

Stephen closed the book. He turned the book over in his hands so that he could touch the front cover and think. Liesel and Max watched him open it again and turn the pages, touching each illustration. Mrs. Morris pressed a hand over her heart.

"I'm going to read this again to myself," he announced, and then set off in search of a quiet corner. For the second time that day, the library held its breath.

"I think you would make a wonderful word witch for children," Mrs. Morris said. For a moment, Liesel had no words, though there were tears in her eyes. Max took her hand.

When Stephen Morris started school, Liesel Meminger started her job as a children's librarian.

*

It was shortly after one Children's Reading Hour that Liesel Meminger, word witch, went home to begin her next book. She nibbled on the end of her pen, trying to find the right way to start. She had written one book about the dead already, though some of them had been living when she completed it. She could not write that story again, though she had told it to Max after they both woke from different nightmares. The word witch pondered what to write, and it was not until she wrote the dedication, _For Papa_, that the answer came.

Max came home to find Liesel with a stack of pages next to her. "We should make more books for children after this one," she said. For Liesel, there was always another book after this one. "I think you would like it more than washing dishes."

"And what is this story about?" Max asked, coming to stand beside her.

When Liesel looked up at Max, smiling, he realized that he already knew the answer.

Like many other stories, this one is about hope.


End file.
